Swagger (14 page)

I called Levi at his home that night. “My dad wants me to finish in the basement,” I said, which was partly true. “When you come back, you'll have to show me your drawings.” Then an idea came to me. “Why don't you ask DeShawn or Brindle or one of the other guys?”

 

The weather was good on New Year's Eve—cold but crystal clear. Mount Rainier rose up out of the clouds in the southeast. I spent the evening alone watching NBA basketball in the den while my mother read in the living room. Every once in a while, I'd think about Levi and Hartwell looking at a sky filled with a million stars, and I'd half wish I was there with them.

O
N TUESDAY SCHOOL STARTED UP
again. Levi wasn't ready when I stopped by his house that morning, which wasn't like him. I waited, and as we hurried to Harding High, I asked him how the backpacking trip had gone.

“Okay.”

“Anybody else from the team go along?” I asked.

“No.”

“Did it snow?”

“Not much.”

“Were there a lot of other backpackers?”

“No.”

“Did you do some drawings?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I just didn't.”

After that, I didn't ask any more questions. What was the point? I was glad to get inside Harding High, so I could go my own way. As Levi walked off, his shoulders were slumped and his head was down.

Something was wrong.

We didn't hook up again until health class. I thought that by then he'd be back to his normal self, but he was still glum. When class ended, we shuffled out of the classroom and into the gym like death-row prisoners marching to the electric chair. That feeling wasn't new for me, but it was for him.

As usual, Knecht started practice with basic drills. Working on fundamentals is boring, but I had to admit that all the guys were dribbling better, passing better, playing better defense than they had been at the start of the year—and that included me. Knecht's stress on nuts and bolts had made us better players. If he'd just let us play fast, I'd have been okay with him as a coach.

After we finished the drills, we had a full-court scrimmage with Hartwell as the referee. Knecht sat along the sidelines at half-court, getting to his feet only if he saw something he didn't like.

We'd been going strong for ten minutes when it happened. Cash missed a shot, and my team rebounded. As I headed up-court, my feet got tangled up with Brindle's, and I ended up sprawled out on the ground. Then, as I was scrambling to my feet, somebody stepped on the back of my shoe and it came completely off.

I tried to pull the shoe back on, but I'd laced it tightly. The only thing to do was unlace it and start over. I knelt down, half looking at my shoe and half looking at the play unfolding at the other end of the court.

I was looking up, and then down, then up, so I didn't see everything. This I do know. Brandon Taylor, a second-string guy on my team, drove the lane and tossed up a wild, off-balance shot. Somebody got the rebound and cleared it to Brindle. “Go!” Hartwell shouted, and Brindle raced up-court toward me.

Panicked, I looked down at my shoe, trying to finish lacing it quickly so I could play defense. My head came up when I heard Knecht rasp out, “No, no!”

What followed played out like a slow-motion scene in a film. Hartwell had turned and was racing along the sideline to keep up with the fast break. Knecht, motioning to Brindle to slow down the play, came out of his chair along the sideline and stepped forward onto the court. Hartwell must not have seen Knecht, because he kept coming. I shouted: “Watch out!” but it was too late. Hartwell smacked into Knecht like an NFL safety smacks into a wide receiver. Knecht flew in the air before going down hard, his head making a sickening thud as it crashed against the hardwood court. His wire-rim glasses flew off and skittered across the gym floor, tumbling and turning until they came to a stop two feet from me.

Knecht lay twisted like a pretzel and perfectly still, so still I was afraid he was dead. Hartwell stared down at Knecht, and then Hartwell looked toward me. Our eyes locked for an instant, and we looked hard at one another, as if we were sharing a dark, unspoken secret. Then we both looked away. A second later the gym, which had fallen deathly silent, filled with noise. “Quick,” Hartwell yelled, “somebody call 911.”

Brindle raced to his gym bag and pulled out a cell phone. Hartwell leaned over Knecht and laid his head against the old man's chest. “He's breathing,” Hartwell said to nobody and everybody. “Levi, help me get him onto his side. Cash, grab that sweatshirt and put it under his head. The rest of you, find stuff to lay on top of him to keep him warm.”

Hartwell positioned Knecht so his hips and knees were at a sharp angle to one another. Next, he tilted Knecht's head back to make it easier for him to breathe. Hartwell checked his pulse, and then stared into his glazed eyes. “Hang in there, Coach,” he whispered. “Hang in there.”

In the far distance, a siren wailed.

We stayed huddled around Knecht as the siren grew louder. After what seemed like forever, the wailing stopped. A long minute later, the gym doors burst open and paramedics came rushing across the gym.

Hartwell stepped aside as they got to work. Two of them put Knecht on a stretcher while the third asked Hartwell what had happened, taking notes as he did.

Then they picked up the stretcher and carefully carried Knecht out. The gym doors swung shut behind them, and we turned back to Hartwell. For a moment he stared at us, confused. Then he pulled himself together.

“Practice is over. I'll follow the ambulance to the hospital. I've got your e-mail addresses on your health forms. I'll send a message out as soon as I learn anything. Right now, the only thing any of us can do is pray.”

Back home I had trouble eating, trouble studying, trouble doing anything other than check my e-mail, which I did every five minutes. I kept seeing Knecht's crumpled body. He'd looked so old, so small.

Early in the evening, all I felt was worry and sorrow, but as the hours passed, other thoughts crept in, thoughts I couldn't push away no matter how hard I tried. I wanted Knecht to be all right, but it would be better for me if he couldn't come back. Hartwell would take over as head coach, and he'd make me the starting point guard. Half the season remained. If I got minutes, I could still put up decent numbers, numbers that would impress Coach Richter. Richter had told me that he wouldn't make a final decision until March or maybe even April. After my miserable start to the season, getting the scholarship was a long shot, but with Hartwell as head coach I'd have a chance, especially if I could turn the season around and lead Harding High into the playoffs.

Around ten the e-mail message from Hartwell finally came, addressed to everyone on the team:
“Coach Knecht has suffered a concussion, a broken hip, and a fractured collarbone. The injuries are serious, but his vital signs are stable. Keep praying. Coach Hartwell.”

What did it mean? My mom was home, so I printed Hartwell's e-mail, went downstairs, and showed it to her. “Oh my God,” she said, putting her hand to her mouth. “The broken hip alone could kill him.”

I was stunned. “You can die from a broken hip?”

She nodded. “He'll need surgery, which is dangerous for someone his age. And even if the surgery goes well, there's danger of an infection or pneumonia or a blood clot. A broken hip is very, very serious.”

W
HEN I STOPPED BY LEVI'S
house before school the next morning, his sister Rachel told me he'd gone in early. He'd done that a few times before, but he'd always said something to me beforehand. I looked around for him in the halls before the first bell, but couldn't find him. I didn't see him until health class, but he came in late so there was no time to talk.

An intercom announcement at the end of the day directed varsity basketball players to meet in the library. “Coach Knecht is still in the hospital,” Hartwell said, his voice somber, once we were all assembled. “I'm canceling today's practice. I don't have the heart for it, and I'm sure you don't, either.” He motioned toward a table by the bank of computers. “You'll find a sheet of butcher paper over there. I thought that each of you could write something for Coach, and then I'll bring it to him. Hearing from you will mean a lot to him.”

We shuffled over to the table and formed a haphazard line. Cash picked up the black marker first and wrote something. Brandon,
who was like Levi in the respect he showed Knecht, went next. Levi printed:
“I'm praying for you, —Levi.”

I took the pen from Levi and wrote:
“Get well soon.”
My phrase seemed idiotic, but nobody else had done much better. Once every player had written something, Levi found a blank space and drew a perfect backboard with a perfect rim and a perfect net.

 

We played Saturday night against Inglemoor, our first game with Hartwell as head coach. The pregame locker room felt strange. When it was time to head onto the court, Hartwell had us stick our hands into a circle for a moment of silence. After that, no one knew what to do. Should we roar encouragement to one another, or would that be disrespectful to Coach Knecht? In the end we stayed silent, heading to the court as if we were headed to a math test.

Hartwell seemed unsure how to coach. He started Brindle at point guard and sat me on the bench, but in the huddle he told the guys to run. “Play the way we played against Garfield in the fourth quarter.”

It made no sense.
I'd
been the point guard in the fourth quarter, not Brindle. If we were going to run, then Hartwell should have started me.

Brindle tried, but fast-break basketball isn't his style. When he did push the ball, which wasn't often, he produced more turnovers than buckets. Most of the time he ran Knecht's plays, even though Hartwell kept yelling at him to play fast.

With two minutes left in the first quarter, Hartwell subbed me into the game. For those two minutes, I tried to push the tempo, but I failed. For one thing, Levi had no energy, no fight. The guy he was guarding was out-hustling him for rebounds and loose balls, and I'd never seen anybody out-hustle Levi. But it wasn't just Levi; everybody was out of sync. It was as if we felt guilty to be playing, as if we were afraid to win.

Hartwell had Brindle play all but a couple of minutes in the second and third quarters—exactly duplicating Knecht's rotation. Brindle would make a few good plays, and we'd cut into Inglemoor's lead. A turnover would follow, or a couple of missed shots, and their lead would balloon back up to six or eight. On the sideline, Hartwell would holler directions, and then go quiet for long stretches. When the third quarter ended, we were down seven.

Hartwell put me in for Brindle to start the fourth quarter. The horn sounded, and we started toward the court. Then, behind me, I heard Hartwell yell: “Time-out, ref! Time-out.” No coach ever calls time-out between quarters. Hartwell had had two full minutes to talk to us. What was he doing?

As we huddled around him, he dropped to a knee and looked up into our eyes. “Listen, guys,” he said, his voice somber. “I know how you're feeling, because I'm feeling it too. But ask yourself this. Would Coach Knecht be happy with our effort? Our energy? The best gift you can give Coach Knecht is to play hard.” He paused, and his eyes went from one player to the next. I was last, and his eyes were focused on me when he said: “Win it for Coach.”

Inglemoor had possession to start the quarter. They came down, worked the ball inside, but their big guy was short on a turnaround jumper. Levi rebounded and hit me with an outlet. I raced into forecourt; it was a three-on-three situation, and my guy sagged off me, daring me to shoot.

I stepped back, went up for a fifteen-foot jumper, and the instant I released the ball, I knew it was a terrible shot. The ball caught the front of the rim, took a strange high bounce in the air, but somehow came down through the net. It was such a laughably lucky shot that that's what I did: I looked at my teammates and laughed. Cash, DeShawn, Nick—their eyes also gleamed with the absurdity of the shot. Even Levi smiled a little.

With that shot, the weight that had been holding us down was lifted. Inglemoor inbounded, and our defensive pressure was so intense that they struggled to get a play going. With the shot clock about to expire, their forward tossed up a hook that missed badly. DeShawn cleared the board and hit me in stride with a great outlet. I raced downcourt, pulled up at the free-throw line, and drained another jumper—this one a perfect swish. “That's it! That's it!” Hartwell shouted from the bench. “Push! Push! Push!”

On Inglemoor's next possession, DeShawn trapped his man in the corner. The guy panicked, twisting this way and that, and finally dragged his pivot foot, turning the ball over to us. While he whined to the ref, I broke up-court, drove the lane, and then kicked the ball out to Cash in the corner for the open three. His shot came from the exact spot where he'd missed earlier in the game, but this time the ball found nothing but net.

Once, when I was little, my mother was driving on Skyline Boulevard late at night. The road was so dark and empty that I was a little spooked. Then, from nowhere, a sports car—maybe a Ferrari or a Lamborghini, flew by us, passing us and then disappearing in a blur around the next bend. Against Inglemoor in the fourth quarter, we were the sports car flying by; all they saw were our taillights.

We won by nine.

I was so ecstatic when I reached the locker room that I wanted to let out a rock concert howl, but just in time I remembered Knecht lying in the hospital. Still, our locker room bubbled with excited talk. It was the Garfield win all over again, but this time everyone knew that Hartwell wouldn't hand the point guard job back to Brindle. I was Hartwell's guy.